


At Night My Sins Are Covered

by greenfairy13



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, BDSM, Blood Kink, Breathplay, Character Study, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Power Imbalance, Selfish Oswald Cobblepot, Smut, Top Oswald Cobblepot, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23414191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfairy13/pseuds/greenfairy13
Summary: Jim and Oswald are in an established, sexual relationship. After a rough day, Jim offers Oswald to use his zip ties on him. From there, things spiral out of control. Inspired by a prompt on Tumblr. The story is set in season five but I changed a few details.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	At Night My Sins Are Covered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Le_Noir (Psycho_Chiquita)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psycho_Chiquita/gifts).



> Thank you Le_Noir for fixing my mistakes <3!

“I wish you’d keep that hideous piece of plastic out of my sight,” Oswald says, putting his glass down with a loud clink that conveys all of his disdain. 

Jim merely shrugs in response, amplifying the mobster’s rage in the process and almost tipping him over the edge. 

How is this even possible, Oswald wonders. How is it possible Jim demands favor after favor and service after service for both their beloved city without ever showing him the slightest bit of decency in return? Once more, he had ended up in confinement, had had to spend another night in one of Blackgate’s moist and cold cells just for Jim fucking Gordon’s benefit. 

And now he has the audacity to walk back into his home as if nothing had happened, for sure expecting him to bend over his desk - literally and figuratively - once more. 

Tough luck, he thinks, lips curling into a devilish smile that could be mistaken for courtesy. 

The unmoving cop on the other hand barely shows a hint of emotion. Eyes flickering from the Penguin to the offending object attached to his attire, he stares at the zip ties in his possession as if he’d only just realized they’re part of his equipment. 

“You’re a criminal, Oswald,” he replies, voice eerily quiet - whether it’s from exasperation or plain exhaustion the man addressed can’t tell. “You’ll get into contact with these time and time again if you don’t change your ways of _business_.” 

“It’s my _business_ ,” the Penguin spits, “that keeps _you_ in business, brings you back into business, protects this city, your precious cops, your precious Harvey. So _don’t_ you dare to test the limits of my friendship,” he hisses, for once lowering his voice enough for it to be barely audible. 

“We aren’t friends,” the cop snaps back, not missing a beat. 

After all these years, those words shouldn’t cut so deep, Oswald should be used to them and yet, they feel like a stab to his heart - one he isn’t ready to tolerate much longer. 

“I wish you to leave,” the gangster commands as steadily as humanly possible. If Jim says one more word all that rage, a rage that has been creeping through his veins, poisoning his thoughts and actions will seep through and claim what it always claims: a life. And if Jim stays it might be his this time. 

“I need…” the unteachable bastard starts instead and Oswald has had enough. The glass containing one of the world’s finest whiskey is being lifted from the table and flies across the room, almost hitting the detective in the face. 

“I don’t care what you _need_ ,” the Penguin screeches. “I have given you enough! My freedom, my empire, my dignity. Whatever you need, what this city needs, I don’t care - I simply want you out of my house! After gluing the last shreds and remnants of this city back together I’m getting charged for tax evasion and now you have the audacity…”

“The accusations have been dropped,” Jim interrupts drily. 

“No doubt after you raised them,” Oswald hurls back and Jim shrugs once more. To him, he’s merely filth, a tool to be used and tossed away, not even worth an answer or an explanation. His fingers itch to cut his useless tongue out and feed it to him. Maybe being bereft of speech would finally make him want to share his secrets. 

Instead of paying attention to the thin ice he’s moving on, Jim starts coming closer until only the desk is separating them from each other. Deliberately, the cop pulls out his zip ties and places them on the pristine surface. 

Pursing his lips, Jim makes up his mind. “This city’s needs have never adjusted to neither your nor my whims, he states. “But if it makes you feel better, you are free to use them on me this time around.”

As soon as the words are out, Oswald’s brain, a brain that had been running on fury for the last 24 hours, freezes. Usually, he’d have no problems grabbing an opportunity like this but all of a sudden, his throat has run dry and his mind is being bombarded with images and ideas. 

Unable to pick an option, he remains silent even when Jim holds out his arms in surrender, beckoning once again for him to pick up the ties and to use them on him. 

Oswald’s voice sounds distant to his own ears when he croaks out his next commands. Suddenly, he’s reduced to single words like ‘bedroom’ and ‘undress’ but they seem to do the trick, for Jim obliges. 

It’s only when Jim lies in the mobster’s luxurious bedroom, a bedroom that should have been theirs, that Oswald truly realizes the situation. The cop is sprawled out on the sheets, stark naked, hands folded across his chest, probably in an attempt to keep them from fidgeting. He’s looking at him defiantly, a mask he always puts on when being nervous or afraid, and waiting for his next order. 

The gangster takes stock of the man in his possession, of the perfectly defined abs, the scars littering his stomach, each telling another gruesome story of his own or their shared past. Eyes sweeping up, he finally assesses Jim’s face, and a beautiful face it truly is with all its sharp angles and edges and those bright eyes that never fail to remind him of splendid summer days that most likely only ever happened in his imagination. 

“Hands above your head,” he instructs before surprising them both with how quickly he makes his way over. One leg on each side of the cop, he presses him down with his entire weight before swiftly tying one hand after the other each bedpost. A hysterical laughter threatens to bubble up Oswald’s throat when realizing the connotations. Like that, Jim almost looks like Jesus Christ. And isn’t he just like the messiah and savior, Gotham’s sacrificial lamb? The one who constantly throws himself in the line of fire? And wouldn’t it be fitting to sacrifice him on his sheets, while adding insult to injury and tearing down the heroic façade in the process? 

The knife is out before Oswald even knows what he’s doing, caressing the skin so carelessly offered to him lovingly. It’s his favorite knife, the one he always keeps hidden in his sleeve and it’s still as sharp and deadly as the day he first used it to spill a nameless, faceless thug’s blood. 

He still remembers the suit he wore that day, though. It had been one of the first truly luxurious garments he had been able to afford. Of course, it had been ruined after the incident, yet he still recalls the rush of power when taking a life for the first time and the respect it had granted him - and now, with Jim Gordon helplessly laid out before him, he feels the same power again. 

Jim’s breath hitches as he tries fruitlessly pulling away from the iciness of the blade. Enraptured by the sight, Oswald follows the lines of scar close to Jim’s heart wondering if the former gun-wound was Sofia’s doing. Following a sudden hunch of jealousy, he presses down harder than intended and is almost instantly being rewarded with a droplet of blood. 

“It should have been me,” he murmurs. “I should have left that scar,” Oswald says in response to Jim’s strangled moan. He prods the small wound once more before scooting the tip of the blade down, spreading small traces of blood all over pale skin. 

Suddenly, he feels the urge to rip all those old wounds open, to deepen them and make them his. It makes him angry, livid even, that all those madmen and gangsters had been allowed to leave their marks while he’s merely a nothing in Jim’s eyes. He wants to litter his abdomen with scars and reminders, wants to rip his chest open and carve his name into his heart so it will forever hurt when it’s beating - just for him. Jim should never be allowed to look into a mirror again without thinking of him. 

Gritting his teeth, he tries containing his emotions, a task he had always been fallible at, and bends down. He needs to taste, needs to have that delicious flavor of copper in his mouth to ground him or make him forever float away into the vastness of his own cruelty. 

The blood in his own body starts rushing south at the first taste and in some way, it’s that blood really forces him to snap out of it when the confinement of his own trousers becomes nearly unbearable. 

A moan escapes his throat that sounds like the howling of an insulted animal. Looking up, he stares into Jim’s eyes, fully expecting to find fear there but is only met with lust. His pupils are blown so wide they have almost turned black and his labored breathing tells the Penguin everything he needs to know to continue - not that he’s certain a different reaction would have stopped him. 

He pockets the knife for now and starts opening his trousers. He needs some relief right the fuck now and Jim has made him wait so long all those years, he isn’t waiting another second. 

“Open up, Jim,” he demands, the sweetest smile plastered all over his face. Maybe he should take a moment to admire those plush, pink lips spreading so willingly for him but that’s for later. 

Before Jim is able to catch his breath, Oswald shoves his cock down the other man’s throat, intent on taking his own pleasure. 

With his entire weight now resting on Jim’s chest, the cop soon enough has trouble breathing and Oswald merely wants to add to his plight. Lifting one hand from his chest, Jim already thinks he’ll be granted some relief but instead slim fingers curl possessively around his throat as the gangster continues thrusting mercilessly. 

He keeps adding pressure to Jim’s larynx with each thrust, marveling at the feeling of a tongue wrapped around his cock and the power of life and death he’s simultaneously wielding over the other man. Jim struggles against his bindings, pulling at them so forcefully he’s using up precious oxygen and yet only achieving nothing but reddening the delicate skin on his wrists. 

It’s only when Jim’s efforts start to lessen that Oswald finally pulls out, allowing for him to finally to gasp for much some needed air. The hand on his throat remains, though, even if he relieves some of the pressure. 

His other hand starts caressing sweaty strands of hair, fully aware that his movements seem to be mocking a true lover’s affection. If Jim only knew how much truth the gesture conveys.

The hand around Jim’s throat reappears, spurred on by years of rejection. 

“Just look at you,” Oswald chuckles darkly. “Choking on my dick like the dirty whore you are. Always taking but never paying back in kind.” 

Before Jim can reply, the Penguin pushes the tip back inside. It’s the only warning Jim gets before he starts fucking his face again. In Oswald’s defense, the saliva coating his dick, the warmth of another man’s mouth are just too _exquisite_. What even heightens the experience are the tears streaming down Jim’s face and it doesn’t take long for him to start fighting again - yet he’s chanceless. 

Oswald continues, enraptured by the way his face reddens, by his desperate efforts to escape his bindings, by his helplessness. Seeing a man like Jim Gordon, a man who faced all the brutality of Gotham reduced to a legit mess almost pushes the Penguin over the edge. This way, Jim can’t tap out, can’t say the safe word - he’s, for once, completely at his mercy. 

Despite this, it takes him long enough before he truly starts flagging. Jim has always been a warrior and even under those circumstances, he tries not to show any weakness. But Oswald had always been an exceptional observer. He notes how Jim gradually stops pulling at the bindings, how his breathing starts getting shallower and finally, he pulls out. 

Jim’s head hits the pillow almost instantly and to the gangster’s utter horror, he doesn’t start coughing or gasping, just lies there as if being too exhausted to even take a proper breath. 

“Jim?” Oswald shrieks, embarrassed with how panicked his voice all of a sudden sounds. “Jim?” he tries again, this time punctuating the word with a slight slap to his face. For one horror-stricken moment, the mobster thinks he has taken things too far but finally the cop opens his eyes and stares up at him. 

The Penguin is almost certain to be met with fear or anger but instead, Jim only seems to be slightly dazed. When moving forward though to assess him properly, he gives out a sound of protest. 

“Break,” Jim croaks out, pulling at his binding once in an attempt to stop him. “Need..break,” he mumbles when realizing the ties won’t give. 

A relieved smile lightens the Penguin’s face. “Say _please_ ,” he replies in that treacly voice usually reserved for his victims. The reaction is instant and Jim’s eyes widen, clearly alarmed. 

The gangster grins down at him impishly as he slowly starts rocking his pelvis forward and at last, Jim caves in. Lips pressed into a thin line, he utters a half-hearted _please_ while looking at anything but the criminal pressing down on him. 

Nonetheless, Oswald is pleased with Jim. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it,” he giggles before claiming his man’s mouth with a passionate kiss. Whether it’s to soothe Jim or to take his breath away once more he can’t tell himself. To the cop’s credit, he gives as good as he gets when slightly biting down on Oswald’s lower lip, just drawing back when they both start tasting the well-known flavor of copper. 

It’s Oswald’s time now to draw back, feeling light-headed and confused as to how it is possible for the cop to throw him off his course even when being tied to a bed. Intent on turning the tables once more, the mobster bends down to occupy himself with the other stunning parts of Jim’s physique. 

Lowering his mouth, he first tenderly starts caressing the pert little nubs Jim decided to offer him so thoughtlessly. It doesn’t take Oswald long though to exchange the endearments with something more true to his nature. He goes on until the nipples are pert and red, sensitive to each swipe of his tongue and the man underneath him starts squirming in earnest. 

“Hurts,” Jim hums, visibly torn between pain and lust. 

Agreeing to the statement, Oswald bestows the same treatment to the other side, only stopping when successfully having turned his partner into a panting mess. 

“Gorgeous,” Oswald states once he’s satisfied with his efforts. Following a sudden impulse, the gangster steadies Jim’s hip with his right hand while using his left to add five parallel scratch-marks to Jim’s multiple scars, forcing him to cry out and only encouraging the Penguin in his intentions to destroy his man of the law. 

“Now, what would your dear colleagues think if they found out how you’ve been repaying my favors, hmm?” he states victoriously. “Just imagine if I’d take a picture or two and show the honorable deputies of the GCPD how their Captain enjoys getting his cock sucked by Gotham’s most notorious criminal?” 

Chuckling darkly, he engulfs said dick with one swift movement, instantly sending reverberations through the body beneath him. He swallows the entire length, right down to the base in an effort to take Jim to the brink and back again. Oswald feels him swelling in his mouth even further, notes how his movements start getting erratic and pulls back just as swiftly. 

“Oswald,” the cop mumbles, exhausted and the mobster thinks his name has never sounded sweeter. 

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” It isn’t really a question though as the answer is clearly visible. “I think in your twisted, little mind you’re convinced to deserve the treatment I’m giving you. Isn’t that right, darling?” he taunts and for once, Jim’s armor seems to crack when he shoots the mobster a dirty look. Encouraged, Oswald pushes on. “After everything you did, dragging Sofia to Gotham, being unable to prevent this city from horror and destruction, getting Barbara pregnant and nearly marrying Lee, I bet you think you deserve all the pain I got to give.”

Visibly ashamed, Jim looks away but now that he started spilling his anger, Oswald finds himself unable to stop.

“I’ll tell you a little secret,” he whispers conspiratorially, “I think so too. I think you should have put your trust in me - always,” he adds before the knife reappears. 

“No,” the cop protests weakly and whether he protests the action or the statement, the Penguin can’t tell. Oswald thinks he doesn’t care anyway. 

It seems they’re both under a spell when the Penguin starts rubbing soothing circles over Jim’s hip, circles that become a perfectly round ‘O’ as time passes on. “Look at this perfect piece of skin,” he mumbles, fascinated. “Not a single scar.” The rubbing turns into the scratching of one flawlessly manicured nail and continues until said skin is reddened and bruised. 

“I should own more than just this tiny piece of skin,” the gangster states more to himself than to the man spread out before him. “I should own your entire being,” he concedes before raising the knife, following the angry red marks with his blade. 

Round and round and round he goes, deaf to the scream torn from the other man’s throat, deaf to anything but his own needs. There’s blood, not much, but enough to soil some of the expensive garment still covering Oswald’s leg. 

“How is it even if I try so hard you always seem to leave the longer-lasting mark on me?” he wonders, awe-stricken. Yet, before Jim has a chance to answer he scrambles up and pushes his dick right back where it belongs. 

He allows the cop to take him to the edge again before pulling back and thrusting right back into this stubborn, stubborn mouth. In and out and in and out until they are both fighting for air. The utterly selfish part in Oswald wants to keep Jim like that forever, helpless and struggling against the onslaught, exhausted to the point of nearly passing out. 

“Mine, mine, mine,” he chants, holding back with all his willpower from pressing down too hard on Jim’s larynx. 

Oswald nearly comes right then but he doesn’t want this to be over, wants for this moment to stretch out, to engulf them both in infinity: endless pleasure for him, endless desperation for Jim. It’s what they both deserve, he believes. 

Groggily, Jim sinks back against the pillows as he silently begs him to stop his onslaught. With regret, Oswald obliges. He hasn’t felt like this in a while now. Only when his mother had still been alive he had felt this desperate urge to kill and keep what he loves equal parts. 

“I love you so much I almost hate you,” the crime-king blurts out, slapping a hand over his mouth instantly. With Jim being on the verge of unconsciousness he isn’t really sure he heard him though. 

He allows him another moment to recover before cutting the ties and forcing the spent man onto his stomach. Yet before Jim can appreciate having the strain taken from his sore wrists, another pair of ties appears, ready to fixate him again. 

“On your knees,” Oswald commands harshly but Jim doesn’t budge. He repeats his command, only to be met with the same inactiveness. 

Listening to the cop’s heavy breathing, Oswald decides this is as good a time as any to fetch two items: lube and - following a sudden impulse - his umbrella. While coating his fingers he muses if he’s taking things too far, if this night would be the final straw for Jim. He doesn’t want to push the other man away, though, he wants to own his entire being - always wanted, but Jim is the only person he could never have on his terms, and he wants to punish him for it. Even if they’d spend the night, in the morning they’d continue playing cops and robbers before inevitably being drawn back together. Some part of him wants to keep going, some part of him wants Jim gone for good. Oswald hasn't felt that way in a long time, not since his mother, who he loved more than himself, even, and at times wanted gone, too. It would have been easier, not having to fear such a great loss. And with Jim, it's the same. 

So yes, Oswald wants to hurt him. Hurt him like he wanted to hurt Galavan, irreversibly so. 

“On your knees,” the Penguin repeats instead, already pushing a meticulously coated finger into Jim’s inviting hole. The sound he elicits speaks more of pain than of pleasure and it gives the criminal pause before continuing with a steady rhythm. 

Finally, Jim moves up for him, signaling that he’s ready for Oswald’s next advance. 

“Just look at you,” the gangster purrs, “after all, I did make you my bitch, didn’t I?” he continues, eliciting a deep moan from the man he admires, loves and hates. “Jim Gordon, Gotham’s white knight, our gorgeous city’s messiah impaled on my cock,” he rants while thrusting mercilessly into the tight heat, aiming each thrust at Jim’s prostate. 

The Penguin had been too pent up already and the sight of his length sliding in and out of this immaculately shaped ass is his undoing. He comes with a strangled cry, hard enough that unloading borders on the edge of pain. Completely spent, Oswald collapses against Jim’s shoulder. 

Too exhausted to talk, he merely lies there for a moment, trying to re-catch his breath. Jim, on the other hand, is still rock hard and more desperate than ever to get off. 

Tenderly, Oswald starts stroking up and down Jim’s abdomen, heightening his lover’s desperation in the process. Long fingers trace the paths of the scratch marks they left, not hurting but soothing. 

“It would take me nothing at all to get you off, right? Just a swipe of my finger to the tip of your dick and you’d spill all over me.”

In lieu of an answer, Jim pushes against his hand, rubs against the sheets while heavily panting into the mobster’s ear. 

Dismayed, Oswald removes his hand to reach for the umbrella hidden from Jim’s sight. What had been a fleeting idea will now be put into action. 

“It’s generally considered rude not to answer a question,” he admonishes, flipping back to his bad mood once more. Even to the Penguin, it’s unclear what forced his temper to flare. Maybe it’s the reason that Jim never listens. Not in bed, not out of it.

When everything he receives in return is a keening noise, he swings the handle around Jim’s neck to look him into the eye. “I want you to beg,” he declares then, voice suddenly cold like ice. 

Removing the handle again, he starts caressing the skin lovingly before raising the item and bringing it down on Jim’s gorgeous backside with a loud smack. Turning the umbrella, he parts those cheeks with the tip, and in this second two things happen: Jim goes absolutely rigid and he finally speaks. 

“GCPD,” he screams, yelling out their safeword in absolute horror, for the first time ever. 

“GCPD,” he repeats frantically, now pulling at his bindings in earnest. 

Horrified, Oswald drops the umbrella. Jim’s reaction instantly renders the Penguin motionless. He should have known, should have foreseen, but he wanted to _see_. Frozen in place, he simply stares now that he observes true fear on his man’s face - a fear that has never before been so directly aimed at him. It's enough to pull Oswald back to reality. 

The sheer anguish spurs Oswald back into action, forces him to reach for his knife to cut the ties as quickly as possible. Shocked, Jim curls up, tries scrambling away but is still firmly held in place. 

“I’m sorry,” Oswald tries to explain but to no avail. 

In the silence that follows each breath is loud as a scream, cutting through the tension. 

Oswald raises his hands placatingly and finally, Jim seems to relax. Neither moves and it seems an eternity has passed before the cop speaks. 

“If you need to do it, do it quickly,” he tells the gangster sullenly, raising his throat in silent invitation. 

“That’s not...I didn’t…” Oswald attempts before swiftly cutting the ties. 

He expects Jim to jump up and storm out the door, to maybe only stop to shoot him as he deserves but neither happens. Instead, he merely leans back, staring expectantly up at the gangster. 

Oswald considers apologizing or explaining but everything he’d say would sound shallow and dishonest. 

“Is that really how you believe I deserve to die?” Jim asks at last to which he only mutely shakes his head. The tears come unbidden yet Oswald can’t stop them from falling.

“Choose me,” he then mumbles brokenly because it’s really the only answer he can think of. Because he _wants_. Only wants Jim to be his. 

“I can’t,” Jim replies, more gently than he deserves. “And you just showed me why.”

Oswald can’t argue with that, just stares into the vastness, knowing he just destroyed the last good thing, the only moral compass he had beside his mother in his life. 

“Let me at least tend to these,” he offers, gently reaching for one bruised wrist. He doesn’t meet any resistance when he starts tending to the wounds he caused. Never being able to take merely what he’s given, he clings to Jim, wraps him up in his slim arms. To his utter surprise, he sinks back against his chest.

 _I should never let you go_ , he thinks as he wills the marks to fade. “You can’t leave me,” he blurts out at last. And Jim doesn’t protest. 

“No, seems like I really can’t,” he agrees at last, and Oswald sighs a breath of relief. 

Tomorrow, they might be cops and robbers again but tonight...Well, it’s only in the night that they can mend things. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it that far, please leave a comment!


End file.
